


Regret

by Gingerwerk



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Abuse, Angst, M/M, emotional pain for whoever reads this, webgott - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingerwerk/pseuds/Gingerwerk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Why did we always have to go from in love one second to being at each other’s throats the next?' Joe thought weakly. 'Why couldn’t we just be happy? Why couldn’t we just have a happily fucking ever after like everyone else? Why couldn’t things just be fucking easy for once?'</p>
<p>“It’s because of me,” Joe sighed wearily. “I just fuck up everything I touch. It’s all my fault.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regret

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this after watching Points when Dick says that Web went out into the sea one day and was never seen again. Warning there will be pain. I was in pain writing this. 
> 
> Also, I don't mean to disrespect the men depicted in this story; it's really based more off the actors who played them.
> 
> ***

             “’s my fucking fault,” Liebgott groaned to himself before he brought the bottle back to his lips and drank heavily from it.

 

            Liebgott sat the bottle down on the worn wooden table, placed his elbows on the table top, and held his head in his rough, callused hands. He felt the pressure of tears pounding against his eyelids, but he forced his face to stay dry. He hadn’t cried since Landsberg and even though that had been a fucking reasonable place to break down, he still hated himself inside for breaking down right there in broad fucking daylight. Hell, couldn’t even wait to get inside where no one could see him. Who the hell knew the last time he cried before that; probably not since he was a fucking kid.

 

            Joe let his heavy-head tilt to the side so that through his fingers, he could just make out the front door from where he sat. He glared at the battered door knob, daring it to move as someone opened the door from the other side. He strained his ears, hoping and silently willing that he would hear footsteps or the turning of a lock. Joe stared at the battered wood of the door and couldn’t help but think of all those times he had either been thrown against the door or all the times he had thrown _him_ against the door, both in times of fury and in times of passion. The sight of the door, standing there all still and quiet, made something curl up deep inside of Joe’s gut, forcing him to turn away before he got sick.

 

            It was that same door that _he_ had stormed through only three nights ago after yet another one of their famously monumental fights. Only after hours of screaming and hitting each other, each man shouting deeply hurtful and detrimental things to the other while fists were thrown, limbs were detained, and knees were pressed into guts, did _he_ dare to finally break away, grab his jacket, and leave.

 

            It was the same old song and dance. After treating each other well for weeks, even months at times, something would set off the perfect time of peace and they’d start fighting, sometimes over absolutely nothing at all.

 

_Fighting_ , Joe thought with a shadow of a smile as he thought about their spats. _More like waging a fucking war._

 

            Fists would be thrown, lips got busted and jaws got bruised, furniture was ruined as they threw each other against less than reliable second-hand chairs and couches and tables, and eventually, one of them, usually _him_ because he had more sense than Joe ever did, would break away, yell how fucked up this was and then leave with a slam of the door, leaving the other to clean up the aftermath of their most recent battle.

 

            They were fucked up. They both knew they were. They’ve _always_ been fucked up and, hey, why bother changing the routine if it’s worked (kind of) for fifteen years? Sure, they both knew there was something deeply wrong if their fights dissolved into physically beating each other into submission, but neither man ever wanted to breach the subject, in fear that trying to fix their epically fucked up relationship, they would break it beyond recognition.

 

            And if there was one thing Joe Liebgott was sure of was the fact the he knew he couldn’t lose David Webster, no matter how much the little book-worm shit pissed him off sometimes.

 

“God dammit…” Joe groaned as he pushed himself into an upright position and let his head tip upwards towards the dingy ceiling of the slightly cramped kitchen. He closed his eyes and for a moment, he could swear he felt Webster’s soft fingers as they ran through his dark locks. It was a gesture Web just always seemed to have done, at least when they were on speaking terms, and it always calmed Joe in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe.

 

            Liebgott forced the almost empty bottle to his lips and drank again, a tiny stream managed to dribble down his heavily stubbled face and down his neck, staining his already dirty t-shirt; he hadn’t really been in the mood to make himself look presentable these past couple of days. He hadn’t even made much of an effort to leave the house, except to walk down to the pier to check that Web’s boat was in fact gone from where it usually sat tied up, proving to Joe that Webster was really gone for now, off blowing some steam in the middle of a God-damn ocean. The fool.

 

            Joe let the bottle, now empty and useless, drop from his hand onto floor, wincing only slightly when there was a shattering of glass and not caring that he’d probably step on the shards later on. Liebgott let his head roll around on his shoulders, now feeling suddenly boneless, and stared around the small house with glazed-over eyes.

 

            The house would have been charming and quaint and cozy if it didn’t still look like a warzone. There was a small fire place, a large area rug, and worn but comfortable pieces of furniture littered the room. There were two large windows that let in light, fresh air, and the soft sounds of the sea, that was literally a stone’s throw away from their home, filled the house. The floors were warm and sturdy and the walls were painted in a supposedly calming blue. Unfortunately, the color choice seemed to be doing little to calm the occupants of the house. There were still couch cushions out of place, a chair knocked over in the middle of the living room, and glass from a shattered lamp glistened on the ground. Minor blood splatters stained the floor and carpet, some new and some years old, along with many of Web’s precious books that were lying haphazardly on the floor, although most of those had been thrown to the ground _after_ Web had left just as an added bonus to Joe who had been monumentally pissed at the time.

 

            The house was small but it was what both men needed to survive. It had electricity, proper heat, running water, and after living so long in holes in the ground, who could really complain?

 

            Well, Joe could always complain, that was for sure. In fact, a couple of their little wars had started because of Joe bitching about the house. Joe liked to start off the fights by stating that the house was so unfairly equipped for Web over him, what with the ocean being right there and the city being miles away where Joe drove his cab for a living. He liked to bitch about how on a slow day, he’d just spend whatever money he got through the day on the gas it cost to get back to their house. Webster always scowled and grumbled quietly at Joe’s poking and prodding and usually ended up snapping that if he didn’t like the house, than he could live somewhere else.

 

            And then things usually went to hell from there.

 

            Truthfully, Joe didn’t hate the house; he actually rather enjoyed the peace and quiet after spending his days in the heart of the hectic city, listening to strangers squabble on the streets and in the cars and in his cab. He even enjoyed the fact that the ocean was right fucking there immensely. He rather enjoyed swimming, even if he had never really declared it out loud; it was something pleasurable to do. Best of all, the house was so remote that whenever they happened to have another fallout, there would be nobody to call the cops on them, no one who tried to evict them because of the noise, no one who would send them judgmental glances at the fact that two fully grown men were living in a house together. Years before, when they had attempted to live in the city, they had run into all of these problems multiple times over, receiving glares and hate mail weekly, if not daily at times, not like Joe really gave a damn what people thought, although Web always seemed to be affected by it.

 

            Joe didn’t know why he couldn’t keep his one little gripe about the house inside, locked deep down inside where it could never see the light of day. But then again, he didn’t really know why he did a lot of things. For instance, he didn’t know why he was forty-six-years-old man who still fought like he was twenty-five and still got ticked off by things that sixteen-year-olds could bat away without a passing thought. Yup, Joe Liebgott was fucked up on a whole other level, that was for sure.

 

            Feeling suffocated by the cramped, dirty kitchen, Joe stood up and his less than reliable legs, especially since one was still rather soar from three nights previously, and ambled his way into the living room, grabbing another bottle as he passed by the cluttered counter. Joe unscrewed the bottle, let the cap fall to the messy floor, and took a longer than necessary pull from the bottle, only letting go when he felt himself getting sick. When Joe finally was able to pull away from the bottle, he realized he had stopped in the epicenter of the war. All around him were pieces of destruction and despair, things he should have long ago stopped seeing when he was discharged from the military.

 

            He looked down and nudged at the remains of the lamp, which had lasted longer than any other lamp had dared to last; they always seemed to end up smashed against the wall or knocked to the floor during both the wars and their times of intense, blinding passion. A small pool of blood stained the edge of the rug, which was so stained with food and drink and bodily fluids they didn’t bother ever replacing it. Joe had a distinct feeling it was his own fresh blood that was now adding to the stains. He glanced at his reflection in the dark window and inspected his still swollen lip and bruised jaw; Joe remembered it had bled rather spectacularly after Webster had clocked him right in the face, causing his nose and lip to bleed. The memory of the hit made Joe wonder when exactly Webster had started throwing more punches that Joe found himself unable to block.

 

“Guess it means I’m getting’ fuckin’ old,” Joe slurred quietly to himself as he gently massaged his jaw and turned to look at the pile of books that he had knocked to the ground after Webster had stormed out of the house and onto the pier.

 

            Out of nowhere, Webster’s words bounced around his muddled, drunken brain for reason’s he wasn’t quite sure. Webster’s angry words from three nights ago seemed to be clearer than his own thoughts right now.

 

_“This is so fucked up, Joe, you know that?!”_   Webster had shouted as he stood in the open doorway, pulling on his heavy coat to block out the September drizzle that was coming down outside. _“When are you ever going to fucking grow up and act like how a fucking forty-six-year-old man is supposed to act?! You may be okay with this fucked up thing we’ve been doing for all these years but enough is fucking enough for me and if you’re not willing to fucking grow a pair and grow up, then I’m fucking finished!”_

 

            Joe remembered how he had rolled his eyes at his distraught lover while trying to stem the flow of his bloody nose. He had not taken Web’s words seriously at all. Every time it was Web’s turn to storm out, he always did it with his usual verbal flare and said a bunch of things Joe never ever took seriously, knowing deep down, through all the layers of shit that was their relationship, that Webster needed Joe just as much as Joe needed him.

 

_“Yeah, sure, Web,_ ” Joe had muttered sarcastically. _“Go ahead and be_ finished _for the_ fortieth _fucking time, I’ll be waiting here for you when you’ve stopped having another little hissy fit on your damn boat.”_

 

            Looking back, he remembered how Webster had frozen in the process of closing the door and connected his eyes with Liebgott’s for a long moment.  He remembered seeing the pain and hurt and confusion that dared to break from inside of his glistening eyes. He remembered how for a fleeting second, Joe felt sick to his stomach with regret and almost called out to the retreating, wounded _, finished_ man. He remembered how he opened his mouth to say something and his hand twitched, possibly to reach out towards Webster. Joe remembered how Webster’s eyes had opened a fraction of an inch for a brief second, seeming to catch Joe’s subtle movements and understanding what they meant. But at the last second, Joe chickened out big time. His mind had balked, his heart seemed to stop, and he had completely lost any idea of what he could possibly do. So instead of calling out, walking forwards, and embracing the man like he knew he should have, Joe had chosen to shut his mouth tightly and reached into his pocket for a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. Joe remembered how he closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see the disappointment on Web’s face at his inability to do anything fucking right.

 

            Joe had kept his head down and his eyes focused on a piece of broken glass on the floor while he had waited for the second half of Web’s big speech to end all dramatic goodbye speeches. Instead of words however, there had been nothing to hear except the slight creak of the door as it closed before it shut quietly behind Web, leaving Joe alone and more upset than he would ever let himself possibly let himself believe. Joe then tipped his head up and glanced out the rain-washed window and watched the dark form of Webster as he retreated towards the pier, despite the bad weather. Joe remembered with an ache how he had let out a bitter laugh and flicked the lopsided curtains closed as he took all of his sadness and regret and longing and pushed it deep down inside of him. He then had walked over to the filled bookshelf that Webster organized and cared for so carefully and tipped the book shelf over until a number of the books tumbled to the ground.

 

            That had been three nights ago.

 

            One night, that was the customary buffering period after they had had one of their fallouts. Web would go off on his boat for a night, either sailing in it or just sleeping in it, or Joe would drive his cab to the city and stay in a motel or maybe he would just drive until he was tired and pulled to the side of the road, returning back home to Web when he woke up. Two nights, well, that happened on occasion. Some fights were that bad or sometimes it would just be easier to stay away for two nights. Sometimes Web would get distracted on his boat and chose to stay out there another day and sometimes Joe would just go straight to work in his cab if it was busy wherever he was and return back home the next morning.

 

            There had never been three nights spent apart after a fight and it made Joe feel sick deep down, hence why he was hitting the bottle so heavily this night.

 

Not knowing what else to do, Joe bent down, swaying heavily as he did, and began picking up Webster’s precious books in an act of penance. He felt a little bad when he noticed one had landed in something, staining several pages. The book was still readable by all accounts, but Joe knew Web would have a fit about it when he found out and it would probably just cause another big fight. Joe’s jaw ached, reminding of every hit that had landed on him three nights ago.

 

            Suddenly, all the pain and exhaustion he had been feeling over the past few nights hit him like a mortar shell going off ten feet away from him. Feeling sick, with guilt, regret, and most definitely with the over consumption of alcohol, Joe sunk down onto the stained and beaten carpet and sat down, long, twiggy legs crossed over each other. Joe let the books fall into his lap and stared at them, as if staring at them would make Webster appear.

 

            The house was silent, the only noise coming from the pounding of the rain outside the house. It had been raining for almost four days now and it only made Joe sicker with worry. Web’s boat wasn’t tied up on the dock, or at least, it wasn’t there this morning when Liebgott checked, meaning that Webster was out there on the ocean, alone on the rocking sea.

 

_Web’ll be fine_ , Joe told himself as he stare out the rain-washed window from his spot on the ground.  _He’s been doing this for years_. Joe refocused on a book he had in his hand and stared intently at the worn, leather cover and the almost crumpled, yellowing pages inside. _He’ll be fine._

            Joe brushed his fingers over the beaten leather of Webster’s old war journal for a moment before he opened the pages and was assaulted with the scent of David Webster. It made him dizzy. Dizzy with regret, with longing, no, dizzy with desire. His heart pounded inside of his chest and his hands began to shake with Webster withdrawal.

 

“What did I do…?” Liebgott moaned as he leaned against the wall, feeling more broken than he had felt in a very long time.

 

            As he stared out into the dimly lit and partially destroyed living room, Liebgott felt for sure at that moment that the reason Webster had been gone for three nights in a row was not because he was stuck out at sea or because he still needed a break from Joe, but because he had truly meant what he said this time and he really was done with Joe.

 

            The idea that Webster was done with him crushed Joe. It felt as if a vice clamped around his heart and the alcohol started to boil and burn inside of his stomach. It felt like he was being poisoned as his heart began to beat faster and his breathing increased. Joe clutched Webster’s old journal to his chest as he desperately tried to regain his breathing.

 

            As he gasped and the world spun drunkenly around him, Joe couldn’t help think back to the last time he felt so low. Back in Landsberg, on the truck, after he had finished telling all those poor, skeletal men that they had to go back into their hell, had to go back without the food they had been handing out, and that they had to stay there until further notice. He remembered how he sat there, hunched over and feeling so very broken, not caring at that moment who saw him like that. He remembered through the pain and the crimpling depression that someone kneeled down in front of him, placed one comforting hand on his knee while the other settled on his shoulder. There had been words, attempts at comfort that wouldn’t make a dent in his pain at the moment. Later, the same person sat down next to him with an arm wrapped around his shoulders while he stared at the floor of the truck, numb to the world. Joe hazily remembered being helped from the truck and to his room back in town, where he broke down even more, which seemed impossible to Joe when he felt so horrible already. It was a long time until he realized that not only was the man still with Joe, sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing soothing patterns into his back, but he also realized who it was.

 

_“Web?”_ Joe had asked wearily after hours of feeling worse than absolute shit.

 

_“I’m right here, Lieb,”_ Webster had said in a soothing voice _. “You need anything else?”_

 

            Joe remembered how he pitifully thought of more physical comfort for a moment, before he thought against it, reminding himself he was Joseph Fucking Liebgott, not some sniveling replacement who got shell shocked at the first sight of gore. Instead, he shook his head and buried himself deeper into his blankets, silently thanking Webster for helping him and staying with him, as if he had read his mind and saw what he actually needed.

 

            Now however, Joe was all alone. There was no Webster who would appear and comfort him and make him feel better than ever with just a couple gentle touches and soft words that Joe knew he didn’t deserve.

 

_I don’t deserve that guy_ , Joe thought as he curled in on himself, drowning in the misery and isolation he had caused _. Damn Harvard boy… should be fucking smart enough to stay away from someone like me._

 

            Joe looked up at the shut front door once again, silently begging for it to open.

 

_I guess he finally realized it…_

 

            Joe turned away from the door, only getting more depressed with the longer he stared at the resolute piece of wood, and refocused on the tattered journal in his hand. He opened the book and flipped through it slowly, taking in Web’s immaculate, slightly girlish handwriting. Liebgott had already read through Web’s private journal, something he had never admitted to his lover but he knew Webster knew he had read it, so he didn’t force his drunken-glazed eyes to focus on any particular words. He just traced over the words with his battered, forever bloodstained fingers in an attempt to get closer to the man he loved more than anyone else, even though he sure as hell didn’t know how to show how much he loved the guy.

 

            As Joe flipped through Webster’s accounts of his time in Europe, memories flooded back to Joe at an almost painful rate. The memories were clear as day, as if they had happened hours ago instead of so many years before. Joe remembered the day Webster joined Easy Company, a few weeks after the big jump into Normandy. Joe remember how he had walked into the barn they were staying in for the night, huge grin on his face, as if this was a fucking picnic instead of a war, and sat down in an empty spot next to Liebgott, who was busy trying to fix a small anomaly in his rifle.

 

_“I’m Webster, David Webster,”_ he had said to Joe, still smiling, impervious to Joe’s steely glare and air of annoyance. “ _Just transferred from Fox Company.”_

 

            Liebgott knew who Webster was; remembered seeing him at Toccoa and Bennings and Mackall and Shanks, remembered him on the ship ride over. He had heard the rumors about him, how he was a spoiled, well-off Harvard boy who didn’t belong among the rest of the uneducated regular Joes of the army. Joe had glance at the hand Webster had extended for a fraction of a second before he scoffed and returned to his task, watching out of the corner of his eye as Webster’s smile slipped off of his face and he lowered his hand.

 

_“So the fuck what?_ ” Joe had snapped, not sure exactly what it was about the man but something irked Joe deep down inside whenever David Webster seemed to be near.

 

            Looking back now, their first real exchange told a lot about how their relationship worked. Webster never tried to be anything except polite and normal while Joe only seemed to be able to react in anger, annoyance, and contempt. It only served to further prove that everything that was wrong with their relationship was Liebgott’s fault.

 

            Liebgott remembered how Web had been there through Holland, always seeming to lurk in the background, sometimes he had attempted to talk to Joe, who usually brushed him off roughly without much thought. The next exchange that stood out in his mind occurred at the hastily set up army hospital in Holland.

 

            Joe had been getting patched up by a harassed looking doctor when he saw none other than David Webster came limping into the hospital and was set down on the cot next to Joe. Liebgott had watched Webster for a moment over the shoulder of the doctor working on his neck wound for a moment before he spoke up.

 

_“What’d you do? Get yourself shot so you could take a break, Web?”_

 

            Joe remembered how his words had made Webster jumped slightly and he grinned as Webster looked up at him, surprise momentarily taking over the pain he was in.

 

_“Yeah… yeah, something like that,”_ Webster said with a roll of his eyes while he grimaced.

 

_“I mean, fuck I know translating is a bitch but did you really feel the need to get shot? Translating’s a better gig than rolling around in the mud and blood with the other guys,”_ he slurred, still grinning ever so slightly at the man who was clearly in pain, with his teeth clenched and brow scrunched. Joe remembered how something inside of him clenched at the sight of Webster so upset that he couldn’t interpret at the time so he just pushed it away.

 

_“Can you just_ not _do your usual shit, Lieb?”_ Webster snapped as a nurse helped him onto his back and a doctor rolled up his pant leg to inspect the wound. _“I’m not_ really _in the mood for it.”_

 

            Joe remembered how he had paused, slightly shocked with the amount of bite in Web’s voice, so unlike his usual calm, push-over self. Something inside of him stirred but before he could really think on it, a nurse had injected him with morphine and he began to feel himself sinking it’s the wonderful, warm depths of the drug.

 

_“Well, fuck Web_ ,” he remembered he managed to groan before he blacked out.

 

            When Joe finally came out of the drug-induced haze, Webster was gone. The next time he would see the man would be on the back of a truck in a beaten down city in France over four months later. Webster would return looking like not a day had passed since Holland while Joe felt unrecognizable from the person four months previously.

                                                                                                                      

In Bastogne, Liebgott remembered he stewed in his frozen foxhole while he was forced to watch friend after friend bleed and die and leave due to injuries too deep to fix. Joe hadn’t thought too much about Webster’s disappearance until a replacement had appeared, named Webb. Anytime the young replacement had been mentioned, Joe had been forced to think back to the other young soldier, whose lacking presence nudged at him deep down inside of him. Replacements would come in, soldiers would return from the aid stations, and every time someone returned, Joe couldn’t help but expect to see Webster sauntering up, perhaps with that big goofy, almost Labrador-like grin on his face. But Webster never showed up in that frozen hell-hole of a forest. He never felt the bone-deep cold and the constant barrages of German artillery, never dealt with starving in the frozen fox holes while they rationed every last bullet, not knowing when they would ever get more supplies.

 

Webster didn’t show up until Haguenau where he was all smiles and stupid questions about men who had either been broken beyond repair or were six feet under. Somewhere deep, deep down inside of Liebgott, he had felt relief at the site of the man as he walked up to them, whole, happy, and no limp at all, but Bastogne had changed him. It had hardened his heart and left it gnarled beyond recognition. He remembered snapping at Web, basically calling him a coward, giving him the cold shoulder, and even guilted him into going to Spiers and getting himself off of the patrol. It was only after Webster had gone on the patrol, proved that he hadn’t forgotten how to be a soldier, did Liebgott begin to forgive the guy.

 

After Haguenau, they became closer, had started to talk to each other more and argue less. Sure, there was still a good bite to Joe’s words at times and Joe only seemed to be rubbing off on Webster, who swore more proficiently now and broke into outbursts of anger more often; he very rarely resembled the mild-mannered, level-headed Harvard boy from almost a year previously. Joe remembered that it was after Landsberg that he realized what all those gut-churning feelings were about, and he remembered how terrified they had made him. It had felt more terrifying than being surrounded by the German army while being forced to huddle in a frozen hole in the ground, hoping like hell that a shell wasn’t headed your way.

 

Perhaps it was the new realization that made Joe so angry around Webster. In Austria, it seemed that every moment they had together had been spent arguing over one thing or another, sometimes over pointless things and sometimes over actual things, like whether or not they should have killed that German officer.

 

On the boat back to the states, Webster had flopped down in the bunk next to Liebgott and God damn, he remembered how it felt like his heart had jumped into his throat and his stomach had plummeted into his shoes. And he hated himself for feeling that way.

 

“ _This bunk taken?”_ Web had asked innocently, looking at Joe with those damn, clear and bright blue eyes.

 

_“Nope,”_ Joe had sighed while he tried to force his voice to sound calm.

 

            Joe remembered how he tried his very best to get away from Webster for every moment they were forced onto the ship and it worked rather well, until a storm had hit and they had been forced inside below deck for days, meaning Joe had very little time and place to hide from Webster, who seemed to have him zeroed in his sights at all times. Joe knew it was obvious to Webster that he was avoiding him. Joe remembered with a pang the hurt he had seen in Webster’s eyes as he dodged away from him one day. However, Joe could only run and hide for so long before Webster cornered him in a vacant area and demanded to know what the hell was up.

 

_“You’re fucking avoiding me_ ,” Webster had declared point blank, like a bullet straight to the heart.

 

_“Oh bullshit_ ,” Joe had said with a roll of his eyes. “ _Not everything’s about you, College boy. Why in the fuck would I be avoiding you?”_

 

_“I don’t know, Joe,”_ Webster said as he crossed his arms over his chest; Joe remembered years later how his heart had pitifully skipped a beat at Webster calling him his first name. It was something that had made him sick back then, but now, now Joe was dying to hear Webster say anything at all. _“Why don’t you tell me?”_

            It hadn’t been a question, but an order, an order that Joe was too weak and cowardly to answer. But what the fuck was he supposed to say? ‘ _I’m avoiding you because for some reason, I’m strangely attracted to you and it’s kinda freaking me out because I’m a fucking guy and so are you’_. Like Joe would have ever fucking admitted his feelings to Web like that. No fucking way in hell was that going to happen.

 

            Liebgott had brushed off Webster’s question with some harsh, cruel words that left both men shouting in the end and almost at each other’s throats, but it allowed Joe a full two days without Webster pestering him. When Webster finally talked to him again, there was a formalness in the air between them that couldn’t be shaken away, not that Liebgott really wanted it to go away. He remembered how he would have rather had the formalness over the clinginess and the confusing thoughts.

 

            However, the small barrier Joe had put up as a defense mechanism had been completely shattered the day they disembarked the boat, back in the New York navel yard. While soldiers ran around, saying their goodbyes to friends with promises to write and visit sometime soon, Joe stood off to the side, train ticket and cab fare already in hand, occasionally stopping to shake a buddies hand and give him a passing grin. He remembered how ready he was to get the hell out of there, thinking that maybe if he could just get far enough away from this all, he’d get his brain working back to normal.

 

            Unfortunately, or fortunately Liebgott thought as he looked back on the crisp memory, Webster had managed to snake him out from the crowd and he was not about to let him go without a fight.

 

_“Hey, Joe_ ,” Webster glanced at the money and ticket in his hand, a flicker of something passing through his bright eyes _. “Leaving so soon, ehh?”_

                                                 

_“Just trying to get back home before everyone’s gone,_ ” Joe had shrugged _. “Gotta get back to work, ya know.”_

 

_“Right, with your cab.”_

 

_“Not gonna do me a lot of good if I get back after all the soldiers have returned home already.”_

 

_“Joe, it’s not like they’re gonna disappear within a day,”_ Web had said, sounding a little exasperated with his explanation _. “You could manage to stay put for another ten minutes.”_

 

_“Yeah? And why the fuck is that?”_ he had spat, fearing the answer.

 

_“Because I…_ ” Web had started out, sounding so unsure and hesitant it made Joe pause. Joe watched as a plethora of conflicting emotions washed over Webster’s face, making Joe curious in what was going on in his pretty little head. Joe waited for more words but what came next was the very opposite of what he expected.

 

            Webster had wrapped both of his arms around him in a tight, warm grip, which had left Joe breathless. Somehow, his frozen brain forced his own arms upwards to wrap loosely around the man’s back. Inside of his head, Joe knew right then and there that he was seriously fucked. Distance be damned. He realized he wouldn’t be able to simply hop on the nearest train and forget about this guy and what he made him feel. He was fucked for life.

_“I’ll be seeing you, Joe_ ,” Webster said as he pulled away from Joe.

 

            Joe remembered how he had forced himself to not look at Webster, sure that if his eyes met Webster, the other man would have seen everything that was going on inside of his brain and Joe had been determined at that point to take every last thought to his grave.

 

_“Yeah, yeah, see ya, Web,”_ Joe huffed as he glanced at the man for a fraction of a second; he then pushed through the crowds, determined to find the train station and to get as far away from David Webster as possible before he did something stupid.

 

            Like tell Webster that he was in fucking love with him for instance.

 

            If it had been up to Joe, he would have never seen Webster’s face ever again. Joe would have forced his mind into believing that Web was nothing more than a scene from a confusing dream for the rest of his life if he could.  After a few weeks, things seemed to be working for Joe and his method of getting over his problems. He had gotten a job at the cab company, had a decent apartment in the city, made a good living, and only dreamed about the dark-haired, blue-eyed Harvard boy on the rarest occasions.

 

            Unfortunately for him, the universe seemed hell bent on punishing him, which he fucking deserved after everything he had done over seas. Because out of all the fucking cabs in the city, out of all the fucking people Joe could have picked up in his cab from the train station that drizzling day, of course he had to end up with a drenched David Webster in his car.

 

            Joe remembered that day clearer than anything else that had happened to him in his life. He had been idling on the curb, waiting for someone to hop in his cab, listening to the radio, when the door opened and in came a slightly dripping man with dark hair carrying a heavy suitcase. Joe switched the car into drive without a passing thought and before he could ask the customary, ‘Where to?’ the man spoke for him.

 

_“Westin St. Francis, Union Square please_ ,” the man had said in a voice that was so painfully familiar it felt like someone had hit Joe in the gut when he spoke.

 

            Joe knew instantly who the man was and he cursed every living being on the planet, every train scheduled ever, and every deity out there, because _someone_ had to be at fault for why David fucking Webster was in his fucking cab.

 

            For a long moment, Liebgott didn’t know what the hell to do. One part of his brain thought of ducking his head down, driving Web to the hotel as fast as fucking possible, and then sending him on his way, never to know they had crossed paths. Another part of his brain thought of speaking to Webster and letting him know that he had just fucking gotten into his cab. Deep down inside, a third part of his brain thought of doing things he only thought about during those rare, slightly painful dreams, the ones he would never let another soul, living or deceased know about. Unable to pick a route, his brain seemed to shut down all together for a long moment, still clearly in shock.

 

_“Is there something wrong?”_ Webster had asked; Liebgott could see his perplexed expression through the rear view mirror and it was then, seeing that it was in fact David Kenyon Webster, did Liebgott respond.

 

_“What the fuck are you doing here, Web?_ ” Joe had asked, sounding tired; he distinctly remembered feeling as if someone had sucked the life out of his body.

 

            Even though he kind of didn’t want to let Web know it was him, it was almost worth it to watch Webster’s reaction in the rear view mirror. His eyes damn near popped out of his head, his mouth dropped wide open, and a small, unexplainable flush appeared in his cheeks. He looked so comical; Joe could not help but crack a grin at the guy.

 

“Joe _?!_ ” Webster had cried.

 

_“The one and only.”_

            Webster hadn’t said another word after that and chose instead to stare at him, mouth wide open in shock. Joe twisted around in his seat and managed to crack a grin at the shocked man.

 

“ _You gonna fucking stare at me all day, Web?”_ Joe had asked in a calm tone, still managing a weak smile while his heart fluttered painfully in his chest.

 

“ _I_ …” Webster had stuttered.

 

            Joe remembered he shook his head slightly, still grinning a now almost dopey grin, while he turned forward in his seat and began driving towards Webster’s destination. Webster had remained quiet for a few more minutes before he had finally managed to shake off his shocked expression.

 

_“So you… so you got your job back with the cab company_ ,” he stuttered, looking flustered.

_“Clearly,”_ Joe had snapped, his tone light while a slight grin still played on his lips. _“What’cha doing out here? Ain’t your precious Harvard on the opposite side of the country?”_

 

“ _Yeah… yeah it is but I’ve always wanted to live on the west coast,”_ Webster had said as he fumbled with something in his hand that Liebgott couldn’t see. _“Just here to check it out.”_

 

_“Taking a little vacation from school, huh?”_ Joe continued.

 

“ _Yeah, something like that_ ,” Web had said vaguely.

 

            Liebgott had pulled up to the front of the hotel before he could say much of anything else to Web. When Webster handed him a twenty dollar bill, Liebgott waved his hand.

 

_“On the house, Web_ ,” he had said, although he really could have used the money; it had been a slow day.

 

_“Let me buy you a drink then,_ ” Web had offered.

 

_“Love to but I kinda gotta work, Web_ ,” Joe had said. “ _Not all of us are blessed enough to just do as they please for their lives because of some family money.”_

            Liebgott had watched Webster’s hopeful expression crumple into a scowl through the rear view mirror. Part of him felt satisfaction over making Webster scowl while another part of him regretted making the smile leave his face. It had all been rather confusing and also happened to piss Liebgott off to no end.

 

“ _Well when do you get off?”_ Webster had persisted, looking determined. “ _We can meet for drinks in the bar in the hotel or something.”_

 

            For a fraction of a second, Liebgott had considered fighting Webster; he had considered telling him that he didn’t know when the fuck he was getting off, he was too busy for drinks, and more importantly, he didn’t _want_ to get drinks with him. But Joe had somehow managed to stamp out that anger quickly and let out a resigned sigh. Why fight it? What would be so bad about one or two drinks with an old war buddy?

 

_Well a lot of fucking bad things could come out of this,_ Liebgott had thought to himself while he felt the painfully familiar gut-churning sensation.

 

_“I get off at seven,”_ Joe finally answered, even though half of him still had not been sure whether he wanted to do this or not.

 

“ _Well I’ll meet you down in the bar,”_ Webster said with a relieved smile on his face as he opened the door.

 

“ _Yeah, see ya.”_

 

            Liebgott remembered how he had watched Webster leave through his rear view mirror and only left after Webster had entered the hotel. He remembered going back to that hotel later that day.

 

            He had parked his car across the street from the hotel, a pretty fancy one too he couldn’t help but notice, and Joe remembered how his heart seemed to constantly want to jump into his throat. He remembered how he had felt absolutely sick with a combination of intense nerves and confusing thoughts. He had felt almost like a fucking kid going on his first date, although it had not been a fucking date, no matter how much Webster declared it was for years later.

 

            Liebgott remembered how he had been all nerves on the outside, but somehow managed to appear calm and collected on the outside, something Webster would vouch for later, as he walked into the bar and found Webster, who looked up at him and smiled. Even fifteen years later, Joe remembered how just the sight of Webster smiling at him in that dimly lit, almost empty bar messed him up. He remembered how it had felt like his stomach had dropped into his shoes, his heart had jumped into his throat, and how it felt as if someone had knocked every last breath out of him. He had cursed the tiny smile that came to his lips when he had begun walking over to him, feeling foolish.

 

            He remembered thinking right then and there that he was fucked for sure. And dammit, Joe had been right on that one.

 

_“Hey, Web_ ,” Joe had said after he managed to move his feet, cross the bar, and sat down next to this man who made him feel so weak and foolish and so goddamn happy all at the same time.

 

_“Glad you could join me,”_ Webster had responded, seeming completely genuine.

_“Well, how could I turn down a free drink?”_

            The first few minutes passed a little awkwardly but after a drink had gotten into Liebgott’s bloodstream, he began to feel a little better than he had when he first walked into the bar.

 

_“So, why are you here in Frisco, Web?”_ Liebgott asked after he finished his second drink and signaled the bartender over for another.

 

_“Like I said, I’m here to check out the scenery, get a feel for it when I finally move out here,”_ Webster said, still nursing his first drink. “ _Been traveling up and down the coast for a while, trying to get a feel for where I’d wanna move to exactly_.”

 

_“Oh really?”_ Liebgott mumbled as he downed a shot with a minor hiss, hoping it would get rid of the rapid heart rate that still plagued him whenever Webster accidently brushed against him, however Webster brushing up against him occurred so often that he had been sure Web had been doing it on purpose. _“How long you been in the state?”_

 

“ _About a week_ ,” he answered before he drank the last half of his drink.

 

_“And what do you think?”_

_“I love it here_ ,” he had said after a moment, eyes bright and shining with happiness; Liebgott could still remember how his heart felt like it had skipped a beat when he saw such an expression on Webster’s face. “ _Love the ocean.”_

 

“ _Correct me if I’m wrong_ ,” Liebgott had said a moment later, _“But isn’t there an ocean on the other side of the country too, Web? Bit closer to where you live.”_

 

_“Yeah well, I came here because I wanted to do some research out here on the Pacific_ ,” Web answered.

 

“ _Research?”_ he had asked. _“For what?”_

 

_“I’m writing a book,”_ he answered as he signaled for another drink, as if it was a normal thing to write a book.

 

_“Fuck, really, Web?”_ Liebgott had exclaimed before he had let out a small snort. “ _Although I guess that’s not a huge surprise coming from college boy here.”_

 

            Joe remembered how Webster had clenched his jaw in annoyance at the nickname before he downed a large portion of his drink.

 

“ _So what’s it about?”_

 

_“Sharks.”_

 

            Joe remembered how he had stopped and stared at Web for a moment, taken aback by his topic of choice. It just seemed so… so random. He could not remember Webster ever really talking about sharks or any sort of aquatic life before but then again, Joe hadn’t been sure if any of their conversations before had ever contained much value. Mostly when they had talked overseas they were either shooting the shit or they were in the middle of a screaming match that usually held little to no value.

 

“ _Sharks?_ ” Joe asked as he looked at Web. “ _Really?”_

 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Web had said with a shrug, sounding a little defensive. _“What? I can’t write about sharks?”_

 

_“Pfff… you can write whatever the hell you want, Web_ ,” he had said. “ _Just… I don’t know…”_

_“What?”_

 

_“I don’t know. Just expected something different from you_ ,” Liebgott had admitted as he threw back the rest of his drink. “ _Not that there’s anything wrong with sharks. Man-eating bastards but… whatever makes you happy_.”

 

“ _Well what did you expect me to write, Joe?”_ Webster had asked; Joe remembered how there had been a bite in his voice that signaled his temper was about to flare, which was the exact opposite of what he wanted to happen.

 

_“I don’t know_ ,” he said quickly as he felt his words begin to slur. _“Jus’ figured, what with you scrbblin’ in that journal of yours all day and night for a year… figured you try and write a book off of the war or somethin’.”_

 

_“Well I… I thought about it doing something with my journal,”_ Web muttered into his glass before he took a long drink.

 

_“But?”_

_“But no one would want to read that,”_ he sighed heavily as he stared into his glass. _“It’s just a bunch of blather about a war that most people either want to forget or don’t care to learn about.”_

            Well, Liebgott remembered he couldn’t really argue with that statement. In the amount of time he had been home, hardly anyone seemed to want to give an old soldier a handout and Liebgott spent most of his time trying his best to block out his time in Europe. He was sure if he saw a book on some G.I. Joe’s war experience on a book shelve he would have given it a rather large berth.

 

_“So why sharks?”_ Joe asked after a long but not exactly awkward pause.

 

_“Hmm?”_

 

_“Why are you writing a book on sharks?”_ Joe elaborated. _“Had a bunch of subjects in a hat and you just happened to pull out sharks or what?”_

_“I’ve always found sharks interesting, thank you very much_ ,” Webster had said with a hint of a smile on his lips.

                         

_“Oh really?”_

 

_“Yeah.”_

 

_“And why is that, if you don’t mind me asking,”_ Liebgott asked as he signaled for another drink. _“What’s so interesting about a bunch of man-eating bastards_?”

 

            Joe remembered turning to look at Webster through slightly glazed eyes and watched as a series of emotions passed over his face. It had been interesting to watch his crinkled brow slowly smooth into something much calmer until his face wore such a tender expression that it had surprised Joe. Smiling slightly and still looking sentimental, Webster had shrugged before he downed his drink and leaned back in his seat.

 

_“I don’t know_ ,” he answered slowly. _“I just… I don’t know, I’ve always just been interested by them.”_

 

_“Well, I can see how useful that Harvard education came in handy,_ ” Liebgott muttered over the rim of his drink as he tried his best to shake away all the feelings that seemed to have been smothering him. _“I swear you used to be a lot more eloquent than that.”_

            Liebgott remembered how Webster had pulled a face before he had downed a large portion of his own drink.

 

_“What, no snappy come back? No fight_?” Joe had asked, surprised that Web hadn’t made a single snide retort yet. “ _Jesus. Someone swap brains with you or something?”_

 

_“Do you really want me to fight with you, Joe?”_ Webster had asked and Joe remembered how tired he had sounded; it made Joe worry for a moment that something was wrong with him.

 

            Liebgott did not answer; mainly because he wasn’t even sure if he could answer. Did he want to start a screaming match with Web? No. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to. But the somewhat calm and even tones they were using for so long only made Joe feel awkward and uneasy. He just didn’t seem to know how to talk to David Webster if he wasn’t screaming and in his face.

 

_“So when you moving out here, Web?”_ Liebgott asked after a rather long and awkward pause

 

_“As soon as I can,”_ Webster answered with a grin before he sipped his drink.

 

_“Don’t you have school or something to finish before you come out to live here?”_ Joe had asked as he looked at Webster long and hard. _“Bit of a commute to school from here, don’t you think?”_

            Liebgott remembered how instead of an answer, Webster had signaled the bartender for another drink, which he promptly drank most of in one shot. It was too obvious that he was hiding something and the only thing more obvious was what Webster was hiding.

 

“ _You’re fucking kidding me, right?”_ Liebgott had snapped as he slammed his drink down on the counter and stared at Webster, who had still not turned to look at Joe. _“You fucking dropped out of school, didn’t you?”_

 

_“And so the fuck what if I did, Joe?”_ Web had snapped back as slammed his empty glass on the counter and turned to glare at Liebgott. “ _It’s not any of your damn business.”_

_“Just thought you fucking meant it when you said you were gonna finish school is all.”_

_“Yeah well, at the time I meant to but-”_

_“But what?”_

_“The fuck does it matter, Joe?!_ ” Webster shouted as he slammed his glass down on the bar and glared at Joe. “ _How about you and your plans? Where’s that big house with your nice Jewish wife with the big tits, huh?”_

_“We’re not talking about me, smart ass, we’re talking about you and your dumbass idea to quit school to come write a book on some overgrown fish,”_ Liebgott had growled while he felt his anger flare exponentially inside of him. _“Now what was so fucking important that you had to quit school?”_

 

            Webster was quiet for a long moment as he turned away from Joe and quietly sipped his drink. For a moment, Joe had been sure that Webster wouldn’t answer him and he’d have to beat it out of him. However, Webster had stopped things from escalating into a bar brawl when he sighed heavily, set down his drink, and turned to look at Joe, looking older than he ever looked before. Liebgott remembered how when Webster stared into his eyes at that moment, he saw a million different emotions swirling around in his bright blue eyes. There was anger burning, sure, but there were many others that Joe could only begin to decipher. He remembered how Web’s bright blue eyes had made Joe’s insides twist but he didn’t break the connection.

 

_“Things changed,”_ Webster said in a deadly quiet voice. “ _Nothing was the same. Nothing fucking mattered anymore. The grades, the classes, the people… none of it mattered.”_ Webster’s eyes flicked away for a moment before looked back at Joe and said in a softer voice, _“I changed. I wasn’t the same anymore.”_

 

            The two men didn’t say anything for the longest time. Instead, they just stared at each other, neither sure what to say or do. Liebgott remembered how he had never felt more nervous in that moment than ever before.

 

“ _None of us are the same, Web,”_ Liebgott finally said while his insides squirmed and wriggled and his heart seemed hell bent on leaping out of his chest. _“We’re never gonna be the same. We gotta learn to be new people.”_

 

            After that, there had been several more drinks to help numb their swirling emotions and it only ended when the barkeeper cut the two men off for the night a couple of hours later. Joe remembered how he had figured that was that, he would maybe talk to Webster again before he left the city but that would be it. Instead, somehow, Webster managed to pluck up his courage and he had asked Liebgott if he’d like to continue their little catch up session back in his hotel room. Joe remembered how Web had used the excuse that Joe was much too drunk to drive home, which made him smirk. The two men had retired to the cozy hotel room and continued their talking until somehow things changed from them just talking like old friends to something completely different.

 

            Somehow, someway, even years later Liebgott was not quite sure how the miracle happened to occur, but somehow Liebgott ended up in Webster’s hotel room bed with Web without a stitch of clothing on either man. He woke up the next morning with Webster’s curled into his side while he used his bare chest for a pillow, feeling so fucking happy and content for once he was sure it was not real. When he finally managed to leave Webster that next day, he left with a wide smile on his lips and promise to come back later after work.

 

            Joe remembered how happy he had been for that week Webster was in town and how the two men just seemed to be in a state of complete bliss the entire time; Joe remembered with a pang that Web would refer to that as their honeymoon. Liebgott remembered how upset and disappointed and needy he had felt when Web told him he had to go back home to New York for a while before he could move out there for real. Liebgott remembered how fucking ecstatic he had been when he got a call from Web a couple weeks later, telling him he would be back for good soon and wondered if Joe knew of a good place to live. He remembered how he had wanted to kiss Web when he saw him getting off of the train but settled for a handshake and a clap on the back before he escorted Web to his car and then helped him move his few possessions into his tiny apartment. He remembered how happy and content he had felt for the first fucking time in who the hell knew when he woke up next to Webster and made breakfast for the both of them and then came home to a warm apartment filled with the smells of dinner already on the table. Didn’t that just fucking beat everything?

 

            It was about two months before they had their first big brawl which ended up with Joe storming out of the apartment with a bloody nose while his neighbors from across the hall screamed that they were going to call the cops on them. When Joe came back the next day, after some apologizing and feeling as if he was walking on egg shells, things went back to normal and things stayed that way for a while longer. But things between the two of them never stayed good forever.

 

_Why couldn’t we just stay that way? Why did we always have to go from in love one second to being at each other’s throats the next?_ Joe thought weakly. _Why couldn’t we just be happy? Why couldn’t we just have a happily fucking ever after like everyone else? Why couldn’t things just be fucking easy for once?_

 

“It’s because of me,” Joe sighed wearily as he felt his brain begin to drift off to sleep. “I just fuck up everything I touch. It’s all my fault.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Liebgott woke up the next morning by the ungodly bright rays of light shining into his face, which felt more like someone shooting lasers into his poor hung-over eyes. His head felt as if someone was repeatedly beating on it with a hammer and his back was absolutely killing him after he fell asleep next to the book shelve. Damn, it really sucked to get old, didn’t it?

 

            Joe stared around the still destroyed living room for a moment, feeling more than a little disorientated. After the moment it took to gain his bearings, he realized that the house was quiet with the only noises coming from the nearby sea. His heart began to flutter painfully when he heard no soft snores coming from the bedroom, no gentle footsteps as they padded about the bathroom, no clanking of pans from the kitchen, and no angry comments coming from under someone’s breath, not wanting to yell but not able to keep their thoughts to themselves.

 

            Webster still had not returned. He was still alone.

 

“Dammit…” Joe groaned weakly as he rubbed his face with his hands. “You really fucked up this time… didn’t ya, Joe?”

 

            As Joe began to squeeze his face angrily, his bruised jaw from four days ago began to ache painfully, only causing him to think about the other man more. He let his finger brush over the bruise on his jaw, wincing slightly when he pressed too hard, let his fingers trail to the healing split on his bottom lip, he even brushed his nose slightly, checking that it in fact no longer hurt to touch.

 

            That hit, that impressive hit to the face that did so much damage, was the last touch from Webster’s skin Joe had felt. After the hit had knocked him to the ground and off of Web, because Joe remembered now he had been up in his face, gripping onto Web’s shirt, screaming in his face about shit that probably didn’t matter, would never matter, while Web tried to leave, tried to tell him he was fucked in the head, tried to let him go easily, but Joe wouldn’t let him go. Joe remembered how tightly he had been holding onto Web’s shirt front. Not because he was angry, but because he hadn’t wanted Webster to leave him, didn’t want him to go out into the world and never come back. Because Joe was too weak to verbally tell Webster not to leave him, he could only hope to use his physical strength to keep him there with him.

 

But in the end, Webster’s temper flared to an apex and he had socked Joe right in the face, knocking him to the ground, flat on his back, and seeing stars for a moment while Web made his escape. While Webster had continued to rant and rave about how they were fucking grown men and should fucking start acting like it, Joe had somehow managed to push himself up into a standing position and had chosen to focus more on his bleeding nose than the palpable anguish heard in his lover’s voice.

 

_“This is so fucked up, Joe, you know that?!”_

 

            Oh boy, did he know it. He just didn’t know what the hell to do to fix it. He didn’t know what to do to fix himself.

 

_“When are you ever going to fucking grow up and act like how a fucking forty-six-year-old man is supposed to act?!”_

            Grow up? What the fuck did that mean? Joe remembered how he thought he was grown up when he was eighteen and moved out of his parents’ house, got his own apartment, and got a job at a barber shop. He remembered how he thought he was grown up when he was ordered to kill people just because they were on the other side of a war. He remembered he had thought he was fucking grown up when he had to learn how to readjust himself to civilian life while he had to deal with nightmare after nightmare of bleeding and dying comrades, skeletal men, and drowning in all the German blood that he had spilled.

 

But maybe he wasn’t fucking grown up, not completely anyways, because he always seemed to have to fight Webster tooth and nail on everything that wasn’t going his way. Adults didn’t fucking throw temper tantrums when things don’t go their way and that was the only thing he seemed to ever do when things didn’t go his way…

 

And he was fucking forty-six already? Fuck, where had the years gone? It seemed like yesterday that he was nineteen and began cutting hair as opposed to sweeping it off the floor of the barber shop, that he was twenty-five and signing up for the paratroopers, that he was thirty and Webster was sliding into his cab and back into his life, that he was thirty-three and carrying boxes into this new house with Web. Where had time gone?

_“You may be okay with this fucked up thing we’ve been doing for all these years…”_

 

            God dammit… he was not okay with this fucked up problem he had. Because all this fucked up relationship was his fault, Joe was sure. And it was all his fault that Webster had left so many nights ago.

 

_“… but enough is fucking enough for me and if you’re not willing to fucking grow a pair and grow up, then I’m fucking finished!”_

 

His fault that Webster was finished with him, for good, it really seemed now. Because after four fucking days it couldn’t be more clear that Webster had meant what he said. Webster, smart fucking college boy, knew when things were beyond fixing it seemed, knew when something was a lost cause.

 

It killed Joe to think like that.

 

It felt like someone had hit him in the stomach with an iron glove and then attempted to rip out his heart and lungs, because he could hardly breathe now. His chest heaved while he attempted to catch a breath that wouldn’t come to him and his heart felt like it was about to give up any moment now while it struggled along painfully with his broken lungs. His eyes burned with years and years and years of pent up tears that he should have cried so long ago but didn’t because he thought being a grown fucking man meant that he couldn’t fucking cry, when clearly, being a grown man meant so much more than that. Webster had taught him that.

 

A loud sob broke its way through Joe’s chapped and bruised and busted lips and shook his whole body to its core. God damn… he was fucking broken, wasn’t he?

 

_This is fucking worse than Landsberg_ , Joe thought weakly as he felt the first of many tears roll down his ragged face.

 

            He thought this not because he thought his suffering over his fucked up relationship was so much worse than all those poor, starving, dying men, because it fucking wasn’t… God… nothing in the world could be worse than that… But no, it was all so much worse because there was no Webster here to comfort him this time around. No Web to place a comforting hand on his knee while he cried quietly in the truck, no Web to lead him back to his bed, no Web to say comforting words to him for hours until he finally fell asleep. None of it.

 

            And it was Liebgott’s fault.

 

            Joe pressed his hands, his shaking, callused, blood-stained hands to his face and tried to regain control. Even now, when there was no one to see him or judge him or think less of him because he was breaking after so many hard years, he still didn’t want to appear weak. What the fuck was wrong with him?

 

            Suddenly, a heavy knocking at the front door sounded across the empty living room, breaking Liebgott out of his funk for a fraction of a second while he tried to get over the shock of the noise. Because it couldn’t fucking be Web… could it? Joe had locked the door, knowing Web had left his key and knew he wouldn’t be able to just sneak inside while Joe was passed out and make a quick escape.

 

            Maybe he had imagined the knock.

 

_Knock, knock, knock_.

 

            The second round of knocks forced Liebgott to his feet but also forced his floundering heart into overtime at the prospect of seeing Webster again. With every step he took that brought him closer to the door, he became more giddy and excited and sick with feelings of regret. Damn was he going to give the biggest apology of the century to Web, who deserved so much more than that but hell, it would be a start. Joe would try to fix himself and would try to fix their relationship. Now that Web had showed up again, he at least had to try. He would try to not be such a complete fuck up for once. For Webster.

 

            As he unlocked the door, Joe’s mind just seemed to explode in excitement. He didn’t know what to do or say exactly when he would open the door and see Web standing there, probably soaking wet from all those nights on the ocean, he just knew he had never been so fucking happy.

 

_“David!_ ” Joe cried, unable to hold anything in anymore it seemed as he wrenched open the door, desperate to get to the man.

 

“Are you Joseph Liebgott?” asked a uniformed man who was so very much not David Webster.

 

            Joe stared at the officer and then at the police car that was parked in front of the house and tried desperately to piece it all together while he slowly, painfully began to deflate from his momentary high.

 

“Yeah,” he answered in a calm voice while he felt something like a boulder drop into his stomach.

 

“And you are the roommate and first medical contact for David Kenyon Webster?” the officer continued slowly.

 

“Yeah.”

 

_Oh God,_ he thought while his whole body seemed to freeze. _What happened?_

 

“And Mr. Webster is the registered owner of the boat _the Screaming Eagle_?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

_What did you do, David?_ Liebgott thought as his heart hammered against his rib cage. _Oh God, what’s happened?_ He felt like he was going to be sick.

 

            Joe watched with wide eyes as the officer gave a grim nod and removed his hat, pulling it to his chest. All of it, the solemn expression, the questions, the fact that Web hadn’t even attempted to contact Joe in four days… it was slowly clicking into place for Joe.

 

_But… but… wait. Fucking wait._

 

“I’m sorry sir, but, I got some bad news for you,” the officer said in a quiet voice.

 

_No… no, just, just don’t say it,_ Liebgott thought desperately as his mind seemed to freeze, his heart seemed to stop beating, and his lungs appeared to stop taking in oxygen. He felt like he was about to collapse. _Please don’t…_

 

“After that storm well, some remains of a boat washed ashore this morning and we were able to piece together that it had been the boat _the Screaming Eagle_. We were able to see that the boat had belonged to Mr. Webster…”

 

_Oh please no… please…_ Joe thought desperately while he stared at the officer with wide, unblinking eyes. _Anything… anything but that. Please, God. If there’s one thing I beg of you…_

 

“And I’m sorry sir, but it appears that Mr. Webster must have drowned out in the ocean,” the officer finished quietly. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

 

The man may have said something else, some condoling words or some kind of comforting gesture, but Liebgott wouldn’t have noticed if the officer combusted into flames in front of him. All he could manage to do was to close the door in front of him before he collapsed numbly to the floor.

 

He expected maybe he would begin to cry, resume the tears that had been free flowing minutes ago, but his eyes had apparently gone dry. No tears escaped his eyes; there were no body-shaking sobs, no quivering hands, no screams of anguish or even a fit of rage. If someone were to happen upon Liebgott, they might assume he was bored with the way he sat with his upper body leaning limply against the door, his eyes staring out into nothing.

 

How very wrong they would be to assume that.

 

As the light slowly shifted across the room as the day progressed, as the minutes of silence turned into an hour and then several, as the world continued to move on even though David Webster wasn’t a fucking part of it anymore, Liebgott knew he had never and would never be this broken ever again.

 

Through the numbness of it all, he began to feel a sickening amount of regret assault him over and over again. Regret over the fact that David’s last words to him would be said with hate, that the last feel of David on his skin was a hard punch to the face, that their last exchange had ended with so much anger between them. Most of all, Joe regretted ever starting that fucking pointless fight, regretted not backing down and choosing to act his age and talk this shit out, regretted not reaching out to David Webster when he could have so easily done it and saved them both from this horrible fate.

 

But of course, Joe Liebgott was a good-for-nothing fuck up and should have known something this great, something that gave him so much happiness, was bound to end badly.

 

_I’m sorry, David… You didn’t deserve this fate… And I sure as hell didn’t deserve you,_ Joe thought quietly as his body began to shake with suppressed emotions. He felt his eyes begin to well up with tears again and this time, he let them fall freely from his face, without worry of what anyone might think of him. He doubted he would ever care about what anyone thought about him ever again.

 

 He could feel himself slipping away from reality the longer he cried and sobbed and shook for his lost lover. Too bad the only person who could have possibly fixed Joe Liebgott was gone forever now.

 

            Gone forever… and Joe knew it was his fault.


End file.
